


Quantum Leap

by wheel_pen



Series: Miscellaneous One-Shots [3]
Category: Quantum Leap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 15:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8406964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: May 10th, 1958. Sam is a dog-catcher in a small town who’s fated to die alone on a country road in three days. While he tries to avoid that, he has to contend with being the local doggy-jailer, and a wife who can see through his disguise. This story is unfinished.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

The nightclub dissolved around Sam with a bluish light momentarily blinding in its brightness. Almost instantly, or so it seemed to him, a new scene began to coalesce around him, leaving him with the now-family feeling of disorientation. Sam blinked, trying to focus his eyes and take stock of his surroundings.

And found himself face to face with a very angry-looking black dog, which snarled at him and bared its teeth.

“Oh boy,” Sam murmured—or perhaps _squeaked_ was a more accurate term. He scrambled backwards, finding himself in a sunny lawn bordered by hedgerows.

“Did you get him, Henry?” inquired a voice from what sounded like a much safer distance. To Sam the voice sounded female and older, but he wasn’t about to take his eyes off the growling beast just a few feet in front of him.

That is, until he realized he was holding something tightly and dared to glance down for a moment—it appeared to be a rope. The other end of which was attached to—

The dog, seeing an opening now that Sam had backed off, darted for freedom across the yard. “Henry!” the voice admonished. “Don’t you let him run through my petunias!”

Sam was all for letting the animal go, at least temporarily, but whoever he had leaped into had been more resolved than that—the rope affixed to the dog at one end, and wrapped around Sam’s hand at the other, was quickly pulled taut. Just as quickly Sam found himself eating dirt, facedown on the lawn and even scooting through it, his arms aching as the dog desperately tried to escape. Acting more out of self-preservation than anything else, Sam made an effort to climb to his feet, the dog straining at the end of its leash. In Sam’s other hand was an odd instrument like a stick, but with a curved half-circle on the end—whose use became apparent when the dog reversed course and lunged at him. Instinctively Sam held the tool up to block the dog.

“Would you quit messin’ around and get him in the truck, Henry?” the voice insisted sharply, and finally Sam felt he could afford to glance around. The white-haired woman standing on the back porch of a nearby farmhouse had her hands on her hips impatiently. “I’ve got to meet Annie at the church!”

_Truck_ , Sam thought to himself hurriedly, still struggling with the dog. He turned to look around the yard. _What truck—Oh._ A large white utility truck, ingloriously marked _Ridgeview City Animal Control_ , was parked in the alleyway. A quick glance down told him he was dressed in workman brown, with some kind of official seal on his arm. _Oh, great, I’m a dog-catcher!_

Drawing on his years of herding farm animals Sam maneuvered the dog to the back of the van, whose door had conveniently been left open—as well as the door to the inner cage. There was even a little ramp he could prod the understandably reluctant beast to ascend, before locking him securely away. Once the truck door was slammed shut—slightly muffling the dog’s protests—Sam sagged against it in relief.

“You’re lookin’ mighty peaked today, Henry,” the voice, now right behind him, said disapprovingly, and Sam jumped and spun around. The woman did not seem impressed with his reflexes. “Mary Alice isn’t… _poorly_ , is she?”

There was something about the woman’s tone that made Sam’s alarm bells go off. “Um, well, you know—no,” he finally sputtered.

The woman seemed not to believe him but let it pass, having more important things on her mind. “That’s the third time this year that mongrel has been in my yard,” she complained, glaring at the back of the truck as though her gaze could bore through it. “I’m sure he made off with one of my chickens last night! One of my best layers, too…”

She seemed to expect comment on this. “Well, uh, I’ll just take him down to the animal shelter—“ Sam began, eager to leave the scene.

“The _what_?” the woman asked in confusion.

“Er, the pound,” Sam amended.

“You do that,” the woman sniffed. “And you tell those good-for-nothing Parkers that I’m gonna have that dog _shot_ this time!”

Sam knew what a menace rogue animals could be. He and his father had dealt with their fair share of coyotes and even desperate stray dogs on the farm. But killing an animal was never something they took lightly—or did in anger. Trying to remember who he was—at least as far as he could—Sam carefully schooled his features and prepared to say something placating that didn’t actually promise to deliver Fido to the executioner.

“I—“ he began.

The older woman turned away abruptly and headed back towards the house. “Would you look at the time? Annie is gonna think I plumb forgot about meeting her.”

Sam swallowed his comment and decided to get out while the getting was good. He was already trying to figure out how he was going to learn the address of the, er, animal control office when the woman called to him from the porch.

“Henry!” Barely remembering he was supposed to answer to that, Sam turned back around. The woman pointed to a spot on her lawn with an expectant expression. Sam had a sinking feeling he knew what that spot contained. “You’ll clean this up, too, before you go, won’t you, Henry?” she said imperiously, and it was not a question. “I want _all_ evidence of that beast gone from my yard.”

Sam sighed and sagged slightly against the truck door. “Yes, ma’am,” he assured her.

***

Sam had been driving aimlessly around town for about ten minutes. Everyone seemed friendly enough, waving as he passed, but he doubted anyone would take kindly to him stopping to ask for direction to his own place of work. His drivers’ license proclaimed him Henry Fenton; the newspaper provided by his oh-so-helpful customer had set the date in May 1958, presuming it was a _recent_ newspaper he’d used to pick up the doggy doo-doo. The reflection in the truck’s mirrors showed a thirtyish white male, perhaps the most unremarkable-looking person he’d ever leaped into.

“Turn right here,” a voice beside him advised suddenly, and the truck swerved slightly with Sam’s surprise. Sam made a right turn, then went to glare at Al in the seat beside him—and, eyes widening, lunged toward the passenger seat.

“Al, you’re sitting in—“ Sam’s hand passed right through the bemused hologram and into the pile of damp newspaper on the seat. Slowly, much chagrined, he straightened up, holding his moist hand away from himself. Sheepishly he glanced at Al, waiting for his quip. “Um, I forgot. For a second there.”

Al took pity on him. “Well, it was a nice gesture, anyway,” he remarked, with as much sincerity as he could muster.

Sam could think of a few nice gestures he would like to perform right about now, but he had just turned onto the main street of town, apparently. And now he was trying to drive one-handed.

“Uh, right up here, Sam,” Al pointed out, a bit more quietly, and Sam pulled the truck into a parking spot in front of the Ridgeview City Animal Impoundment.

Sam cut the engine and leaned back in the seat with a sigh, _almost_ running his right hand through his hair. “Ah ah ah,” Al reminded him helpfully, and he stopped just in time.

“Al, I’m like—a doggie jailer,” he complained.

“Oh, yeah, all the kids in the neighborhood used to _hate_ the dog-catcher,” Al reminisced. “’Cause none of us could afford to register our dogs and we never kept them on leashes, so sometimes he would just swoop in and nab your best pal right off the street, you know.” Al’s face took on an expression of remembered loathing. “Mr. Archibald was the main one. He was a real bas—“

“Al,” Sam cut in sharply. This really wasn’t helping.

“Oh, right, sorry,” Al assured him, breaking off the tirade. He banged on the side of his colorful handheld computer. “Now let me see here…”

“Al, I didn’t spend six months building that thing so you could beat it to death every day,” Sam commented, searching his pockets for a rag or handkerchief. Then he met his friend’s eyes suddenly, surprise on both their faces.

“Sam, do you remember building this?” Al asked with cautious hope.

Sam blinked, then squinted, then closed his eyes, then opened them and sighed with defeat. “No, I don’t,” he admitted despondently. “I did for a second—I guess—and then it was just—gone…”

“Er, well, that’s okay,” Al replied, trying to sound cheerful despite his own disappointment. “It’ll all come back to you later.” Same, having found a rag beneath the seat, proceeded to scrub at his tainted hand and said nothing. “Right, well—“ Al poked carefully at the instrument. “Your name is—“

“Henry Fenton,” Sam intoned.

Al nodded. Sam had gotten pretty good at figuring these things out by now. “—and it’s M—“

“May, 1958.”

“Uh, May 10th,” Al added. “And you are in—“

“Ridgeview City, South Dakota,” Sam sighed. “And—I’m a dog-catcher. I got all that.”

Al looked dubiously at his friend. “Actually it’s just Ridgeview,” he corrected. “You seem a bit testy today, Sam…”

“I’m a dog-catcher, Al!” Sam pointed out for the third time.

“Well, um…” Al struggled to put a positive spin on it. “Hey, at least you get to work with animals!” As if on cue the captive dog in the back began to howl.

“Catching is one thing,” Sam pointed out tensely. “But the woman whose yard I found this dog in—she wants it shot. What if _I’m_ the one who has to do that?”

Al sighed, seeing his point. Sam had always had a soft spot for dogs. All animals, really. Anything that could look at him with soft, pleading eyes, actually.

“Well, maybe you won’t have to worry about that,” Al tried optimistically. He went to bang on the computer again, glanced at Sam, then tapped it gently instead. “This should be pretty straightforward.”

“Good,” muttered Sam. “What am I here to do?”

“Well, according to our database search,” Al revealed, “Henry Fenton is killed three days from now. So Ziggy figures there’s an eighty-seven point three percent chance you’re just here to prevent that from happening.”

Sam frowned at Al’s news. “Killed? How?”

Al grimaced as he read the computer’s report. “His body was found on a country road near here—they said he’d been attacked by a dog. I guess he bled to death before anyone could find him. Hey, but look at it this way,” he tried, seeing Sam’s increasingly glum expression. “All you gotta do is stay away from the country backroads on the night of May 13th, Henry won’t die, and you can leap outta here.”

“Good,” Sam agreed firmly. “That’s all I want, to get out of here.”

“You might start by opening the door, Henry,” a voice to the left said dryly, and Sam started. Standing beside the truck was a rotund man with a sheriff’s uniform and a patient expression.

“Uh, right, of course, Sheriff,” Sam stammered, letting himself out of the truck. Although he’d wiped his hand off as best he could, he was still reluctant to touch anything with it until he’d performed a thorough scrubbing. The sheriff backed off to give him space and Sam immediately realized why. “Uh, sorry about the smell,” he added lamely.

The sheriff shook his head. “That’s okay, Henry, we’re all used to it by now,” the man assured him, which didn’t actually make Sam feel better. “But if you could get that dog inside I think we’d all be a lot happier.” Sam could see passersby turning their heads towards the furious barking.

“Right,” Sam agreed reluctantly. “I’ll just—take him inside.”

“Uh, well, I’m just gonna go gather some more information about this dog-catcher fellow,” Al announced. “I didn’t really wanna talk to him before, on account of him bein’, you know—“

“I know, I know,” Sam muttered. “A dog-catcher.”

“Sorry?” the sheriff asked, turning back.

Al exited in a bright doorway. “Uh, I was just talking to—the dog,” Sam insisted, indicating the back door he was about to open.

“Oh, right,” the sheriff agreed, with apparent sincerity, and wandered off.

Sam gave the back doors of the vehicle a determined look. This was not going to be easy.

***

Al reappeared half an hour later, into a small bathroom where Sam was vigorously scrubbing his hands. “Al!” Sam protested, as the soap squeezed from between his fingers in surprise. “Don’t we have some kind of rule about you not appearing when I’m in a bathroom? What if I was, you know?” He nodded significantly at the toilet.

“No, we don’t,” Al replied shortly. “One of those little details we forgot to attend to before we sent you spinning through time.”

Sam sighed and started to dry his hands off. “I don’t think I can take this for three days, Al,” he warned. “I mean—listen to them!” Al had of course heard the plaintive, only slightly muffled howls coming from the other side of the door but hadn’t wanted to mention it.

“Well, uh, maybe it’s not so bad from your office?” Al suggested hopefully.

Sam gave him a look and opened the bathroom door. Before them was a larger room, sterile white, with a row of cages stacked two high at one end—and a desk right across from them. “ _This_ is my office,” he commented acidly.

The two of them walked out to observe the impersonal room. Four prisoners—er, dogs—were currently being held in the cages, all of them baying their heads off. “Maybe you could call in sick for three days,” Al proposed.

Sam chose not to dignify that with a response. “I don’t understand why I’m here so early, Al,” he went on, approaching the desk. Maybe he could glean some useful information from Henry Fenton’s files. “I mean, if I just have to avoid a certain road on a certain day, why do I have to be here for three days?”

Al pecked at his computer but was already shaking his head. “Got nada on that one, pal,” he admitted. “Maybe this is something that takes time to avoid,” he added speculatively. “I tried asking Fenton about that stretch of road, and he said that wasn’t even in his jurisdiction.”

Sam stared at him. “So we don’t even know why he was _out_ there at—“

“Three AM,” Al supplied. “Nope. He says he doesn’t know anyone who lives out there, it’s not on the way to anywhere important…”

“And for this dog to attack him he’d have to be on foot,” Sam mused, as much as one could muse in a room of baying dogs.

Al left a meaningful pause, then pointed out, “But hey, it’s almost five! Almost time to go home!”

“Who am I going home _to_?” Sam wondered aloud. He’d found a wedding ring safely tucked into Henry’s wallet against the hazards of the job; there were a number of family-type photos arranged on the desk, but none definitively containing a Mrs. Dog-Catcher.

Al poked at his computer. “Let’s see… Henry has a wife named Mary Alice—“

“Someone was asking about her today,” Sam cut in thoughtfully. “Is she—sick or something?”

“Funny you should say that,” Al remarked. “That was the first thing Henry said once he got calmed down—‘What about Mary Alice?’ Kept wanting to make sure she was okay.”

Sam frowned. “Did he say what was wrong with her?”

Al shook his head. “Could be nothing,” he pointed out. “Normal concern of a man when he’s told someone else is masquerading as him for a few days—who’s going to be sleeping next to my wife?” Sam rolled his eyes. “You know, Sam,” Al went on, rolling his cigar between his fingers, “sometimes I really wish we’d decided _I_ would be the one to leap. I mean, think of all the opportunities for—“

“Al!” Sam chastised. “Maybe you should just join your compatriots over there.” He jerked his thumb towards the caged dogs.

Al gave him a narrow look. “Who’s the one with the information here, Sam?” he pointed out peevishly. “I could just tell you the wrong name for your kid. Or the wrong house to go into.”

Sam ignored the rebuke. “I have a kid?”

“A daughter,” Al clarified, squinting at his screen. “Thirteen years old. Named… Evereen.”

Sam grimaced. “Seriously?”

Al shrugged. “What can I say? ‘Een’ names were popular there for a while.”

Sam sighed. “Okay. Mary Alice and Evereen?” He glanced at the clock, then around the room. “Well, I already cleaned up after the dogs and gave them some more water,” he announced, “so I guess it’s about time to—“

A knock sounded outside the office and the door was pushed in hesitantly. A thirtyish woman peered hopefully around it, a nervous smile on her face as she spotted Sam. “Oh, Mr. Fenton, I’m so glad we caught you!”

Sam glanced at Al, who shrugged unhelpfully. “Yes?” Sam answered cautiously. “What can I do for you?”

The door burst open then and a small boy bounded into the room, charging right through Al on his way to the cages. “Buttons!” he cried, rushing up to the black dog Sam had so recently acquired.

“Ms. Parker,” Sam deduced, slurring the title a bit in case she was a Mrs. or Miss.

“I am really so terribly sorry about this, Mr. Fenton,” the woman began, clearly expecting the worst. “I know we’ve been in here kind of often lately—“

“Oh, Buttons, I’ve been so worried about you!” the little boy exclaimed. The dog whined and licked at his hands through the bars of the cage.

“Cute kid,” Al remarked to no one in particular.

“I guess so,” Sam replied to Ms. Parker.

“It’s the hole in the fence, Mr. Fenton, really,” she insisted. Pleaded, was more like. “No matter how often we get it fixed, he still manages to find a way out.”

“Well, look, er, Ma’am,” Sam told her, “I understand, I really do, but when a dog starts stealing chickens—“ Once a dog had tasted fresh blood like that, it was hard to keep them from just going wild.

“Buttons would never steal a stupid old chicken!” the boy declared with fierce loyalty.

“Timmy,” his mother hushed.

Al rolled his eyes. “Of _course_ his name is Timmy,” he snorted. “It’s a wonder he doesn’t have a lisp or something, too.”

Sam ignored him. “Well, er, a witness claims she saw—“

“Gloria Tatum?” Ms. Parker guessed. “She’s complained twice about Buttons being in her yard this year alone.”

“That’d be her,” Sam agreed. “She seemed pretty mad this time.”

“Please, Mr. Fenton, Buttons is a good dog,” Timmy insisted, rejoining his mother. Sam judged him to be maybe eight. “He doesn’t steal chickens or tear up flowers or anything else Mrs. Tatum says! He just gets out of the yard, is all.” Sam hesitated, not exactly certain what the laws on dog impoundment were. Could he just give the dog back? What about Mrs. Tatum’s insistence that the dog be shot? Was that just bluster, or was it an official complaint?

The Parkers took his pause as reluctance and doubled their efforts. “Please, Mr. Fenton, if you would just let us take him home, I promise I’ll keep him on a leash, even in the backyard, until we can get that hole blocked up again,” Ms. Parker promised. “Look, I even brought one with me.” She pulled a length of rope from her purse.

“Please,” Timmy added passionately. “Please, Buttons is my best friend!”

Timmy looked at Sam with soft, pleading eyes. His mother looked at Sam with soft, pleading eyes. Even Buttons looked at him with soft, pleading eyes. Al just shook his head as Sam melted like butter on a hot day.

“Oh, okay,” he sighed, heading toward the cages. Timmy whooped with joy.

“You old softie,” Al teased.

“Like you wouldn’t have done the same thing,” Sam muttered as he messed with the lock. The one good thing about the noisy dogs was that they covered his remark.

“Well, I have to agree with that,” Al admitted freely. “After all, Mama Parker has a nice pair of—“

“Here you go!” Sam announced cheerfully, opening the cage door. Buttons bounded out and was embraced by his young owner. “We seem to have a vacancy,” Sam said under his breath to Al, before turning away to face the Parkers. “But look, I’m serious about this,” he warned them. “If I get any more complaints about Buttons—“

“Oh, you won’t, Mr. Fenton, promise!” Timmy assured him with youthful enthusiasm.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Fenton,” Ms. Parker added. “He won’t be any more trouble, really he won’t.” She affixed the rope to the dog and the three of them left the office.

“Too bad _that_ wasn’t what I was here to do,” Sam sighed.

“Not _quite_ that fast,” Al agreed. “But, still _very_ simple, remember? Stay away from County Road 150 on May 13 th.”

“Right,” Sam agreed. He looked expectantly at Al. “So where do I live again?”

“Oh.” Al tapped his computer. “435 Cherry Lane—huh, that’s funny, I dated a girl named Cherry Lane once.”

“And where exactly _is_ Cherry Lane?” Sam pressed, ignoring the rest of the comment.

“Hmm, last I heard she was working at this strip joint in Minneapolis—“ Al saw his look. “Oh, you meant the—right. Three blocks that way.”

“Thank you.” Sam switched off the light and locked the office door behind himself, leaving Al standing alone in the dark.

“I’ll meet you there!” the hologram announced belatedly.

***

Sam was walking down the kind of street that made people nostalgic for the ‘50’s—neat yards encased by white picket fences, big shady trees leaving dappled sunlight on the sidewalk, the laughter of children who played freely in the street without worrying about any dangers. Granted, the laughter momentarily paused whenever Sam walked by, replaced by wary youths drawing their pets towards them protectively. Sam gave up smiling and hurried on his way.

“You know,” Al said, appearing beside him suddenly, “that Buttons reminds me of a dog I had when I was a kid.”

“Back when the dog-catcher was the most loathed person in the neighborhood?” Sam muttered under his breath, hastily turning away from the suspicious glare of a little girl playing with a collie in her yard.

Al was clearly wishing he hadn’t shared that particular memory with Sam. “Look, stop being so sensitive about it,” the older man advised sensibly. “You can’t make everyone like you all the time.” Sam sighed and didn’t reply. Al took the opportunity to continue his story. “Benedict was all-black, just like Buttons. Or, well, I guess he could’ve just been dirty, I never gave him a bath—“

“Benedict?” Sam repeated with bemusement. “Kind of an odd name for a dog.”

Al looked slightly uncomfortable. “Er, yes, well, I named him after a character in a movie.”

“What movie?” Sam asked curiously. He enjoyed these little moments when he could get to know his friend better. Despite feeling like he should already know the things Al told him.

“ _The Bells of St. Mary’s_ ,” Al answered and Sam frowned, trying to remember it. “Ingrid Bergman’s character, Sister Benedict?”

Sam couldn’t help chuckling a little. “You named your dog after a _nun_?”

“No, I named him after his color. Custard,” said a little boy Sam passed. A custardy yellow dog barked at the sound of his name and the boy held him close until Sam went by.

“435, right here,” Al pointed out quickly as Sam scurried uneasily away.

Giving Al a look that conveyed his reluctance yet again, Sam climbed the white porch steps and opened the door to the house. He had trained himself out of knocking on doors that were supposed to be his own, but he still felt awkward walking into a strange home, not knowing what awaited him. So he proceeded with caution.

The front room stirred a vague memory in Sam’s brain, and he always latched onto those fiercely. “I think… I think my grandma’s house looked like this,” he whispered to Al, glancing around at the chintz-covered couch and decorative china plates. Which made sense, as the ‘50’s were probably the last time she’d updated the décor. “We would go there sometimes, on Sundays right after church, and—“

Al cleared his throat as the door from another room swung open, admitting an attractive blond in a powder-blue dress. She looked at Sam questioningly. “Yes?”

“Uh, nothing,” he assured her quickly. “I was just—talking to myself.”

“This is your wife, Mary Alice,” Al introduced.

And the woman’s eyes flickered right to him. “Excuse me?” she said in a tone that was becoming suspicious.

Al stared open-mouthed, alarmed, and Sam quickly coughed. “Er, I just said, uh, how’s life, Mary Alice?” he explained lamely.

“Do I _know_ you?” the woman demanded, putting her hands on her hips.

Now Sam was really getting nervous. For a moment he wondered if Al had made good on his threat and sent him to the wrong house. He risked a sidelong glance at the other man, who was frantically banging on his handheld computer once again.

“This is her, Sam,” Al assured him. “Mary Alice Fenton.”

“Look, I don’t know what you two think you’re doing”—and both Sam and Al dropped their jaws to the floor in shock—“but the sheriff lives _right_ next door, and my husband will be home any minute,” she told them defensively.

“Um, I, uh, I—“ Sam babbled.

“Sam, she can see me!” Al hissed in panic.

“Of _course_ I can see you!” Mary Alice was getting really peeved. “Now get out of here before I—“

Sam was wordlessly poking at his jacket, trying to reassure himself that he really was who he thought he was. Er, sort of. “Oh, you work for the city, too!” Mary Alice surmised, seeing the patch on his jacket. She brightened. “Are you friends of Henry’s? I’m _so_ sorry, he didn’t mention anyone was coming by and I thought I knew everyone—“

The woman had gotten closer to Sam, as if to lead him to the couch. Close enough, in fact, to read the name on his coat. “That’s Henry’s jacket,” she breathed, alarm growing again. Sam was getting dizzy from the rollercoaster ride of the last two minutes. Mary Alice backed away. “Where’s Henry? What have you done to him?” she demanded fiercely, real fear in her voice for the first time.

“Al, what’s going on?” Sam asked from the corner of his mouth, trying to affect a non-threatening expression. “Uh, look, Mary Alice, it’s okay—“

“ _Where’s Henry?!_ ” the woman screamed, nearly hysterical all of a sudden.

“I don’t know, Sam, I’m getting some wacky stuff here,” Al reported unhelpfully.

Suddenly the door to the front room opened again as a girl in saddle shoes and a poodle skirt ran in. “Mom? Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

Mary Alice grabbed the girl’s shoulders. “Get the sheriff. Tell him something’s happened to your father. Hurry!”

The girl looked across the room at Sam with uncertainty. “Evereen,” hissed Al.

“Evereen,” Sam repeated, addressing the girl. “Do I look… okay to you?”

“You look fine, Dad,” Evereen answered.

Mary Alice stared at her. “That isn’t your father! That isn’t Henry!”

Sam and Evereen exchanged looks. Sam felt that, as the nominal father, perhaps he ought to take charge. “Look, why don’t we just sit down and talk this over—“

“Don’t come any closer!” Mary Alice demanded. “Either of you! Where’s Henry?” She broke down sobbing, collapsed on the floor.

The girl cradled her gently—and not for the first time, it seemed. “I don’t know what’s wrong, Dad,” Evereen said sadly. “She’s been fine ever since I got home. I’ll go get her medicine.” She carefully dislodged her mother and went back into the kitchen.

Sam took the opportunity to quickly kneel beside the weeping woman. “Look,” he said quietly, “it’s going to be okay. I’m here to help you.”

“Sam, I think I’m gonna get out of here until I can figure out what’s going on,” Al decided nervously. He tapped a few buttons and the doorway of light appeared behind him. He stepped through it and vanished.

That was too much for Mary Alice. She fainted dead away, Sam lunging to catch her. Evereen appeared with a pill and a glass of water. “Oh.”

“She fainted,” Sam explained.

The girl sighed but did not seem surprised. “I haven’t seen her this bad in a long time, Dad,” she confessed. Sam recognized the trace of fear in her voice.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he told her, as he scooped the woman up in his arms. “She’s probably just… tired.” The girl looked as if she’d heard that excuse one too many times. “I’ll just put her to bed,” Sam decided. “Why don’t you turn the bed down for me?” Since he didn’t know where the bed _was_.


End file.
